International Journal of Communication 10(2016), Forum 5669–5683 1932–8036/2016FRM0002 Everybody and Nobody: Visions of Individualism and Collectivity in the Age of AI ARAM SINNREICH (provocateur) American University, USA JESSA LINGEL University of Pennsylvania, USA GIDEON LICHFIELD Quartz, USA ADAM RICHARD ROTTINGHAUS University of Tampa, USA LONNY J AVI BROOKS California State University, East Bay, USA In Homer’s The Odyssey (one of humanity’s earliest surviving works of speculative fiction), the story’s hero, Odysseus, pulls off one of literature’s great escapes. Trapped in a cave by the giant, man- eating cyclops Polyphemus, the wily Greek lulls the monster to sleep with divinely powerful wine, then pokes out his only eye with a flaming wooden stake. Right before Polyphemus passes out, Odysseus prepares an insult to go along with the injury: when the Cyclops asks his name, he responds by claiming it’s “Nobody.” Thus, when the blinded Polyphemus seeks help from his fellow monsters and retribution from his divine father, the sea god Poseidon, all the poor creature can tell them is that “Nobody’s killing me” and “Nobody made me suffer” (Fagles, 1996). The plan works, and Odysseus escapes with his remaining men to their ship, as the blind cyclops, relying on his ears instead of his eyes, heaves boulders in their direction. This is when the hero commits his greatest error: Despite his men’s entreaties, he begins to taunt the cyclops, reveling in his victory by revealing his true identity: Cyclops— if any man on the face of the earth should ask you who blinded you, shamed you so—say Odysseus, raider of cities, he gouged out your eye, Laertes’ son who makes his home in Ithaca! (Fagles, 1996, p. 227) Copyright © 2016 (Aram Sinnreich, [email protected]; Jessa Lingel, [email protected]; Gideon Lichfield, [email protected]; Adam Richard Rottinghaus, [email protected]; and Lonny J Avi Brooks, [email protected]). Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution Non-commercial No Derivatives (by-nc-nd). Available at http://ijoc.org. 5670 A. Sinnreich, J. Lingel, G. Lichfield, A. R. Rottinghaus, & L. J A. Brooks IJoC 10(2016) This burst of pride proves the hero’s undoing. The god Poseidon, vengeful for his son, becalms Odysseus’s ship, setting off a chain of events that will delay his return home to his wife and son in Ithaca by a decade. The Odyssey has survived the millennia in part because it’s a gripping yarn poetically spun, but also because the story of Odysseus serves as a cautionary tale about pride: Place your individual needs, aspirations, and identity above those of your compatriots, and you will make the gods very, very angry. As scholars ranging from Adorno, Horkheimer, and Hullot-Kentor (1992) to Fuqua (1991) to Weiner (2014) have argued from various perspectives, this cautionary tale and others like it have functioned historically as a way for societies to navigate the tensions between the needs and identities of the individual and the collective, and, at times, to reinforce the primacy of the latter over the former. Social historians and philosophers have long debated the degree to which most people living in the Western world in the two millennia following the publication of The Odyssey understood themselves to be subjects, distinct from the communal identities they inhabited. Yet the vast majority of scholarship tends to agree that although subjectivity may have existed in some form, the individual always remained necessarily subordinate to larger units of social measurement. Pipes (1990) for example, writes that Tsarist Russian peasants “had no opportunity to acquire a sense of individual identity,” and thus “submerged the individual in the group” (p. 95), and Parekh (1997) argues that “in almost all premodern societies, the individual’s culture was deemed to be an integral part of his identity . the cultural communities were therefore widely regarded as the bearers of rights” (p. 524). This dynamic was profoundly altered as the “modern individual” was birthed during the Renaissance, accelerated through the age of industrialization and colonial expansion, reached its apogee in Enlightenment-era liberalism, and was reified in the mythos of Romanticism. And as society reorganized itself around this newer, smaller, more subjective kernel of rights and responsibilities, our stories changed, as well. Modern narratives, especially works of speculative fiction, tend to begin with the individual as an axiomatic entity, and then to weave both cautionary and celebratory tales around his feats, foibles, and failures. Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days (2016), for instance, is almost an anti-Odyssey, the hero’s timely return a testament to his self-determination and moral rectitude. By contrast, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (subtitled The Modern Prometheus; Shelley & Butler, 1994) tells the tale of Enlightenment run amok, of a scientist’s creation getting the better of him and taking the lives of those he loves. Victor Frankenstein and Odysseus share the tragic flaw of hubris, each pridefully provoking the elemental forces of the natural world into angry rebellion, leaving a monster in his careless wake. Yet if Odysseus’s sin resides in claiming individual victory over the Cyclops, risking kith, kin and kingdom in the giddy celebration of his own name and accomplishments, Frankenstein is guilty of the opposite. Immediately upon seeing his own creation brought to life, he flees, full of disgust and renouncing any responsibility for his work. Ironically, it is not Frankenstein’s scientific achievement but rather his disassociation with it that sets the wheels of fate in motion. When the monster finally confronts his maker, he explicitly blames his murderous rage on this rejection: International Journal of Communication 10(2016) Everybody and Nobody 5671 You, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends. (Shelley, 1994, p. 68) As modernity ripened and mellowed in the 20th century, and Western liberalism faced challenges from newer collectivist ideologies, the narratives changed again. Cold War–era speculative fiction in America and Western Europe—often seen as the “golden years of science fiction” (Asimov & Greenberg, 1988; cover)—frequently relied on the specter of collectivism and its implied or explicit threats to individualism as a foil for the story’s heroic or antiheroic protagonist. Earlier narratives of this era manifested this threat in the form of dystopian political states ruled with mechanical precision by faceless bureaucrats. Orwell’s (1949) Ingsoc and Rand’s (1946) Council are two notable examples, though this trope has become a staple of contemporary young-adult fiction, epitomized in Collins’s (2008) Hunger Games trilogy and Roth’s (2011) Divergent trilogy. As the Cold War birthed the “space race,” speculative fiction’s collectivist boogeymen morphed from earthbound bureaucracies to alien races and mechanical amalgams. Perhaps the most widely known exemplar is The Borg, a ruthless, hive-minded, expansionist galactic empire first introduced on television in Star Trek: The Next Generation (Roddenberry, 1987) and for the past quarter of a century a staple of the Star Trek franchise universe. The Borg leverages all of the technological expertise of its conquered species to overcome and “assimilate” new species into its “collective.” Once assimilated, individuals are incorporated into a univocal, shared consciousness in which any trace of personal or cultural idiosyncrasy is expunged and all decisions are made for the benefit of the group. When The Borg was first introduced to the Star Trek universe in 1989, months before the fall of the Berlin Wall, the species was presented as unequivocally evil, an avatar of doom speeding its way across the galaxy to impose its collectivist will on an unprepared and outgunned pluralistic Earth. As the 1990s progressed, and the political shadow of institutional Communism receded, The Borg took on more nuanced hues. Seven of Nine (see Figure 1), a human who was liberated after a lifetime as a Borg drone in the spinoff series Star Trek: Voyager (Berman, 1995), feels genuinely conflicted about leaving the hive mind and at times expresses a desire to rejoin the collective (spoiler alert: individualism wins out). In the early 21st century, an era distinguished in part by global communications networks, ubiquitous computing, and widespread political upheavals over neoliberal economic policies and their environmental consequences, the narrative has shifted again. Today, the avatar of collectivism is the Singularity, a cataclysmic fusion of human and artificial intelligence projected to occur around the year 2040 by futurist and inventor Ray Kurzweil (2005). 5672 A. Sinnreich, J. Lingel, G. Lichfield, A. R. Rottinghaus, & L. J A. Brooks IJoC 10(2016) Figure 1. Seven of Nine, separated from the Borg hive mind. [Ctrl+click title to view video clip.] Though Kurzweil is a widely respected thinker, his claims regarding the Singularity have been polarizing, both in technical and cultural circles. Some scientists, such as Rodney Brooks (2015), actively doubt whether machine sentience is even possible, though others, such as Stephen Hawking, have sounded the alarm that AI “could spell the end of the human race” in the not-so-distant future (Cellan- Jones, 2014, para. 1). Culturally, some have flocked to Kurzweil’s side, dissecting his books, screening his films, and even enrolling in Singularity University to learn more about his ideas, while others have dismissed him and his followers as a millennialist cult, depicted Kurzweilesque scientists as the villains in high-concept films, such as 2014’s Transcendence, or lampooned the Singularity movement as the “Rapture of the Nerds” (Doctorow & Stross, 2012).